


FFxivWrite2019

by PastTheVaultedDoors



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood, Gore, Rape/Non-con Elements, Voidsent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-05 15:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastTheVaultedDoors/pseuds/PastTheVaultedDoors
Summary: Prompts for the month of September set up by sea-wolf-coast-to-coast on Tumblr.Some of these get dark. Didn't mean for that to happen.





	1. Voracious

The stone walls were like a tomb, echoing the silent struggle of a man clawing his way to freedom. A botched mission gone wrong left more dead than alive, and Shiomi barely escaped the feeding frenzy the demons were having back in the main hall.

It was pitiful, really, that the miqo-te had to suffer these fools. He’d done his part; burned and froze and electrocuted their foe, but the group couldn’t keep up with the onslaught of monsters. He suspected that it was a trap; lured in with an easy fight to cleanse a village only to be ambushed with twice as many voidsent as were predicted.

Now, Shiomi had to lean against the carved stone walls as a crutch while his other hand held his stomach to keep his entrails from leaking out of the gash there. The conjurer could have at least healed that before she died!

Shiomi spit on the ground, more blood than saliva as he made his quiet trek back up to the living. Assuming he could still live. If the gash wasn’t enough, then the aether drainage was going to get to him. The voidsent tried to siphon him dry, but he tapped a layline to distract them before making his less-than-strategic escape. All the while his fallen comrades’ screams echoed through the tomb-like halls.

Get out, get out, get out! he screamed to himself. He was hungry, drained, and in pain. He wouldn’t last another battle, not like this.

A sound caught his ears, and he pressed himself against a crack in the wall, hoping whatever demon that fluttered by wouldn’t see him.

Metal scraped against rock, weight slid against the floor. It was nearing!

The miqo’te had to put a hand over his mouth to keep his heavy breathing quiet and hoped that his heartbeat was only thudding in his ears and not in the echoing silence of his tomb.

A deep groan sputtered nearby before a body clattered to the ground by Shiomi’s hidden nook. The adventuring group’s guard lay half on the stairs, his silver armor splattered with blood.

Shiomi peaked out from his hiding spot to make sure the demon’s weren’t following their prey before he slipped out. Falling to his knees, he turned the tank over and pulled off his dented helmet.

“You’re… you’re still alive, shrimp?” the man wheezed. The blow on his head probably caved in his skull; he wasn’t long for this world if he didn’t get help soon.

Perfect.

Shiomi licked his lips at the possibility. There was enough aether to get him through… if only Shiomi could tap into the part of his soul that remembered how to take it.

“Shrimp?” the guard asked, and something in his small eyes registered fear. Shiomi much have let his hunger show as his shaking fingers covered the man’s throat.

“Hush,” Shiomi snapped, all business as he began to drink. “I’m trying to remember how to kill you.”

Under normal circumstances, the thaumaturge should have been easily overwhelmed by the tank that was twice his size. A bashed skull and overexertion in battle left the tank no more than a flopping fish, wiggling on those stone steps as Shiomi drank away his life energy.

Like a voidsent.

It was a small feast. The moment that last of his aether slipped into Shiomi, he was still hungry like he hadn’t been in years. Since he was… someone else.

The thaumaturge pushed himself up, ignoring the corpse at his feet, and rolled his shoulders. This should suffice to get him back to the surface. Then he could deal with his ripped stomach.

Shiomi licked his lips and looked back. He was still hungry though…


	2. Bargain

What was he thinking?! Shiomi wasn’t a fancy chef. He could toss together a pot of gruel for a group of greasy construction workers, spin together a few spices to satisfy his mothers’ congregation with bowls of ramen, and he knew how to cook up fish on an open fire.

But there was no way he was going to get an elegant geisha to believe that they just hired a cook. A dish of tofu with a pretty garnish was about the best he could do.

While Shiomi mused, a pot began to boil over on the stove. He hopped up onto his step stool and, stupid as he was, grabbed the head of the otoshibuta. He let out an indignant squawk and cradled is burned fingers.

Right, use a spoon to lift up the handle.

He only wedged his way into the job because he was living like a common beggar, pitting his worth to anyone at Doman Enclave that needed a handyman. With his magic locked, he couldn’t make his gil adventuring and not a lot of people gave the young miqo’te much of a chance to do anything else but hammer a nail.

Finally pulling the otoshibuta off properly, Shiomi looked at the book he had propped open against a pile of corn husks. He scratched his head at the odd verbiage of the fancy cookbook.

The young miqo’te sighed.

Housing, food, and clothes might not have been the best bargain for a faked career when they were expecting real results.


	3. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning; mentions of underaged rape!!
> 
> Kueth's youth.

He knew it was a violation of his person, but he couldn’t figure out why.

The night was as any other raid was supposed to be. Kueth was bathed in his enemy’s blood, a manic, wild look in his eyes as he mowed down anything that moved beyond the fires.

He expected it when they lassoed a rope around his neck, then his hands and feet. They always had to keep themselves alive and get Kueth, the monster, back into his pit where they might actually feed him from the spoils.

Back then, his awareness was hazy at best. Kueth only knew enough to kill and maim and destroy when out of his sullen pit where they poked him and gave him victims to execute for a gory display of power.

He was young then, with youth’s strength and testosterone pumping through his veins like a wildfire to dry grass. Nothing could stand in his way but the cage of his capturers that kept him like a hunting dog.

But tonight there was a new atmosphere. Rather than tossing into the muddy hole they kept him tied. The smoke plumed a few miles away, villages destroyed and Kueth’s mind wanted to be there, to slaughter any stragglers.

But no. They had his binding tight to the ground until he was spread eagle looking at the deep sky.

“He’s old enough,” one of them said. “He has the build to make many great warriors.”

“Keep him tied down” demanded another. “If he touches me, I’ll take your skull.”

Bound, then gagged, Kueth watched as a warrior sat over him. Heat boiled within him that he didn’t want, he hated it, because he had no permission on how it felt. Yet, he couldn’t stop the electricity from bouncing up and down his spine.

When the world went white she left, leaving the Xaela confused and dazed. Then another female warrior came to sit upon him as well. His body reacted when he screamed into his gag.

Someone laughed, another chuckled.

The warrior over him made a sigh.

Kueth wished he knew how to cry.


	4. Shifting Blame

“What’s this gruel?” a woman with a wrinkled face and a dusty mage’s robe scoffed.

Shiomi sneered as he set the rice porridge on the table. “Dinner, hag.”

“I know what it is dimwit,” she said and gave the miqo’te a smack on the back of his head. “But why does it look so runny?”

Shiomi’s tail bristled and went back to his boiling pot. “Price went up in the markets, I picked up what budget rice I could manage.”

“It’s all those Garlean’s fault,” the old congregation Mother went on. Her and her nuns supped in their bending house, the winds of fall pushing palms off the thatched roof. “They ruined the crops, then those foreigners scooped up all the good stuff with their fancy talk.”

“Maybe if you’d start bringing in tithe we could afford real rice,” Shiomi spat at the elder woman and ducked the bowl that was chucked at his head.

“Maybe you should cook better!”

The nuns around them either ignored the daily spat or were watching with sardonic amusement.

“I should have drowned you when we found you on the river.”

“Maybe you should have, then I wouldn’t have to listen to your nasty voice every day!”

“Get out of here!” Mother stood, pointing a crooked finger to the cracked door.

Shiomi yanked off his greasy apron and threw the ladle down. “GLADLY!” As the miqo’te stomped away with his sack that was almost always packed for days he was kicked out, he heard a few nuns take bets on how long he’d stay away this time.


	5. Vault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiomi's youth.

Shiomi tugged his cloak up closer to his nose. It was nighttime, and chilly, and Shiomi was skinny and malnourished. He could have gone back to the convent but the nuns were loud and obnoxious; two things he hated.

So there he sat, huddled in a tree, pulling what little fabric he could around his body.

Maybe he didn’t go back because they were beginning to show signs of mistrust. Shiomi had fluttered in and out of their care since he could remember, either kicked out or had run away. He was useful, at least, and created a spark of entertainment beyond the mundane chanting. But Shiomi didn’t like it there, even if it was the closest thing he had to a home.

He was getting older now, and his own trust was waning with them. Sacrifices were for men and he wasn’t far from an age where he could reach manhood. They weren’t mother or sister by any means, never were his family, just a constant he could go back to in exchange for favors and work that the nuns couldn’t complete themselves.

Shiomi blew warm air into his hands, and on the second attempt a spark of fire’s warmth joined in.

He would return, he knew, but his walls were already built and becoming stronger. One day, he would slaughter them all, but right now he could stand a few nights in the cold while he and Mother calmed down and decided not to throw acid at each other.


	6. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kueth's youth

Kueth was born strong and reveled in the fight. He enjoyed taunting others into battle and grew stronger for each one he slaughtered.

It was glorious; the more blood that sprayed the more powerful he felt.

His handlers send them into his pit, at times he was so small he would barely reach their belly button. But the weak morons were practice, the beefy meatheads were his prey.

Then there was that turning point, where small rewards turned to honest fear by his captures. One fell into his pit, and Kueth stole his ax. Little by little he tore apart anyone that tried to restrain him, chopping of limbs and heads with wild, manic glee.


	7. Forgiveness

He might have been fourteen when he spend his entire summer away from the convent. He traveled the rice patty fields and did odd work at the villages to earn a few meals and a bed in the barn when it rained. Shiomi kept away from the crowds as much as he could; they were too noisy and people smelled like stale dreams.

Shiomi and Mother had a falling out in the spring, and Shiomi was fearful she was going to finally make good on her threat to use his blood for sacrifice. But something about home—that horrible language of nostalgia—kept tugging on him. At least there he had a bed and a niche in the community.

His summer wasn’t awful; he met a girl that taught him finer points of sword handling, and one of the matrons of a school insisted he learn new strokes of kanji before he floated away. His own training on his elemental arts was growing, pulling from a core power and local aether.

Fall was coming. He loved the season in general; for the harvest, the crisp air, the skittering of leaves. But what came with fall was the cold, and he couldn’t keep jumping between villages and drained patty fields and expect to survive the winter. So the young Shiomi puffed up his chest, lowered his ears, to beg forgiveness in exchange for a scrap of home.


	8. Hesitation

Kueth remembered the day fondly. It was their first real bath after the ground had thawed and the spring was just popping its head out from hibernation. All manner of life was attempting to wake up.

They chose a cloudy day to bathe, when the rest of the tribe would abandon the running water and huddle in their tents and fire pits. The water was cold but not chilling, enough to get a good scrub before they had to jump to the warmth of their own fire set up nearby.

Clothes were hung on tree branches to dry as Kueth and his Sage scrubbed off the sweat and stink from the past season. They spent a lot of time alone over the past six months, were Sage taught Kueth basics of living, of consent, of joy and sorrow.

Kueth often dived into those lessons; things that normal children would learn that he was neglected. Now, with his new self awareness, there were things he had grown divided on.

Like his Sage.

Kueth remembered that day fondly. All through their bathing he didn’t hide his gaze that fell onto the other au ra, how the water ran over his skin, or the soft sounds he made when he shivered from the cold. He certainly enjoyed the playful smile Sage offered him from time to time, not in the least bit ashamed of his nudity, nor was he afraid of Kueth’s eyes.

Kueth wanted Sage.

They were in shallower waters, thigh height, to keep the cold from running up their spines. It was gold and green and fresh. Kueth would never forget the deep scent of pine and soil, of air dancing over the clear water.

He approached and reached out, but didn’t make the contact even with Sage’s welcoming smile. He had learned not to steal, and not to touch. Permission need to be granted.

“Sage is beautiful,” Kueth stated, their first spoken words in the hour. Oh, and he was! Like dark clouds among a bright day, white hair with sharp black scales. He was smaller than Kueth, far more agile on the hunt but not as strong.

“Kueth is beautiful,” he returned the compliment with a sweet smile meant to tease. He knew what Kueth wanted, had been edging towards all winter. But it was spring, the air was clear, and Kueth knew he could finally say it.

Finally, Kueth reached out and touched a winter-white lock of Sage’s hair. It lay damp and pristine against Kueth’s own tan and calloused fingers. He tugged at the lock, forcing Sage a step closer.

“Kueth ask to kiss his Sage,” he finally said, his voice gruff, his face warm all of a sudden.

Sage’s teasing smile opened up. “You may have permission to kiss me, Kueth.”

His fingers remained curled into Sage’s hair, it even stuck to his wrist, when Kueth cupped the other’s cheek. Kueth leaned down and could feel the humid breath on his lips.


End file.
